


let's pretend to be real people

by aarakocraz



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Crow-face (OC), Fallen London OC, Helikos (OC), Judas (OC), Other, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23790406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarakocraz/pseuds/aarakocraz
Summary: invite the poet judas and the half-blind scholar helikos to a party, and you didn't even need to provide entertainment.(alt title: getting together when you're gay and traumatized and can't admit to having feelings)
Relationships: Helikos (OC)/Judas (OC)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	let's pretend to be real people

**Author's Note:**

> this is just fic i wrote about my and my friend's ocs hope you enjoy. don't @ me about capitalization i wrote this on my phone

you're terribly, blessedly sober for what probably isn't even the first time in your life and every fiber of you demands you shred the party invitation immediately and retire to a devil's dinner date with several bottles of red. you're halfway to doing it a couple times while you spiritlessly rifle through your wardrobe, but then you remember (again) disposing of the remainder of your stash following that unpleasantness at caligula's and the lengths you'd have to go to convincing any shopkeep in the area to sell any alcohol to  _ you,  _ at  _ this  _ hour. you'll have better luck getting delightfully hammered at this society to-do for something or other.

also, (and you barely let yourself think this), They might be there.

again you push the thoughts from your mind, and come to a manner of a decision as you select a collared shirt and a waistcoat without bloodstains. (you can't tell what color they are, but as long as they're mostly clean you'll be able to leave without scandalizing too many people.) you're awfully, horribly sober and your stomach turns for no reason at all when you tie your tie, the one that They liked, and you polish your bug-eye goggles to a mirror shine, and you storm out the front of your townhouse with the invitation crumpled in your fist. that grinning bastard crow-face owes you deeply for this one. 

the party is, as you expected, dull as bricks. you can't discern what at all it's  _ for,  _ either. the door you find yourself at belongs to a more obscure salon, and your ego tells you you're well more acquainted in society's bosom than any other guests. neither the conversation nor what passes for dancing is particularly scintillating, and you're finding your way towards where the drinks might be, and you hear an arrogant, throaty chuckle behind you that makes your heart stop dead.

They haven't spotted you yet. they can't have. their tongue is sharper than their eyes and you still have a  _ rivalry,  _ for christ's sake, so you make another decision, and you turn.

the woman speaking to judas levine is genteel and beautiful, but she is not funny. she introduces herself as the organizer of this dreadful excuse for a party, and judas at least has the good graces to greet you politely, if a bit archly. 

"I've read your latest scientific paper on the correspondence," they comment over the rim of their glass. "fascinating. a bit dry." the commendation rolls like a drop of honey off their tongue, and the look they shoot you sparkles with mischief.

this is not the rhythm you are used to. it imitates it almost perfectly, down to your private joke and your response that of course it's a bit over their head, the literature is a bit  _ highbrow,  _ after all, perhaps too technical for a layperson, but the jabs land differently. they respond with a remark about your capacity as a writer to write to your audience, and you laugh properly, and it's no longer a struggle but a game you play between yourselves at the expense of the belle of the ball looking more and more politely confused next to you. you don't remember what you said but they  _ laughed  _ and your mouth dries immediately.

you trip over your excuses and vanish yourself to the bar. you're dreadfully, inexcusably sober.

\--

"I'm gonna kill that no good lout next thing tomorrow," you gripe into a half empty glass of the most watery champagne ever made.

"who? our mutual friend? I wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't even come here." judas slides into the alcove you're lurking in. their glass is empty, and you tip the remains of yours in without a word.

"did he talk you into coming as well?" you ask.

They raise their eyebrows at the newly filled glass but tip it back the same. "naturally," they reply. "he convinced me I have nothing better to do."

"could try writing poetry for a change," you comment, earning you a derisive snort that does  _ not  _ make your gut clench.

you stand in silence for a moment as you both watch a footman try valiantly and fail spectacularly to keep his tray of canapes out of the genteel woman's lap.

you catch the eye of a tall man who you recognize as a high ranking member of the constabulary, and you take a moment to recount mentally every major criminal infraction you've been guilty of this past month, and your current reputation as an upstanding citizen. judas notices.

they look about ready to say something outside your dreadfully average two-step, and you can't have that, just as you can't be contemplating the way their auburn curls glimmer under the chandelier and the way it feels to touch them, so you spot a convenient out in the form of the lady of the ball reappearing in fresh skirts. you're feeling courageous, and a bit spiteful, so you ask her to dance. you do  _ not  _ take note of the conflicted expression that twists your rival's brow.

you're not familiar with this dance, but the gentlewoman is, and for all she is uninteresting she saves you from making a complete ass of yourself as you turn and bow and step. 

"I've never been much of a dancer, I'm afraid," you admit to her. "too tall."

she chuckles like a struck bird, because you've stepped on her foot. "you're perfectly adequate," she lies. you're desperately regretting this and all other decisions that led you to being here, with this woman, at this party, stumbling and turning your ankle on this infernal heeled boot.

you're saved from a particularly embarrassing spill by another hand in yours that swings you energetically not-quite-upright, legs and arms a messy sprawl and nose to nose with your next dance partner. 

you've never been more grateful for your choice of eyewear. you're staring, staring, staring, as if you're studying a work of art, and they're smiling just barely, and there's something without a name that's pulling your guts apart, and you feel like you are falling through and endless, dark ocean, and then they pull you into the next step of the dance and the moment breaks. your throat is sand-dry and you want nothing more than to cut and run.

"had to make an ass of me?" you ask coolly, but your voice cracks.

judas won't look at you. you wish they would. "you were doing a perfectly good job of that yourself." you know these steps at least, and manage to not embarrass yourself further as you repeat the dance with your new partner. you're definitely not thinking about their ungloved hand sitting in yours.

you're definitely not thinking about the ways you have held those hands before. the way they've held you. you're not thinking about it because they've made it quite clear what they think of you, and also because the dance is becoming more complex.

the both of you speak the way you dance - meant to be delicate, treading circles around a subject rather than in it, but ultimately graceless and deeply frustrating.

"I haven't seen you lately," judas says. "not since-" 

"the unpleasantness at Caligula's" goes unsaid as the dance demands another trade of partners. you're shuffled back to the gentlewoman, who is looking more disenchanted by the second.

"you seem to know that judas fellow well," she observes with an obvious distaste. she leans close, confidential. she is a good head shorter than you, and she has your arm wrapped awkwardly around your back. you think it might be an interrogation technique if you didn't see the other couples imitating. "it seems they might have...a reputation I've overlooked. I cannot have a scandal here, you realize?"

you don't realize, but you catch her drift. 

there was another salon you encountered judas in before. stronger drinks. different clientele. you had a bit of a reputation in those circles - invite the poet judas and that half blind scholar helikos to the same soiree and you don't need to provide entertainment. the convoluted arguments and personal insults would carry the whole evening.

you were invited to a lot of parties. some of them were fun.

that one, especially. you'd just published the fourth canto of a somewhat meandering epic and you wanted to rub your success in their smug little nose. it had started much the same with barbed witticism and even a thrown cocktail glass, but at one point they'd gotten physical (sidling into you coquettishly with the whole room watching, hands wandering) and it had ended with the two of you pressed up against each other in the salon's back room, thoroughly debauched and giggling. the next day they were back to their usual haughtiness, and wrote a scathing review of your work.

yes, you know their reputation.

"why tell me about it?" you ask the gentlewoman.

she looks dour. "you know them. I don't want them  _ here,  _ causing a  _ scene. _ " the _'_ _ get rid of them for me'  _ is implicit.

the music changes, and finishes, and you're blessedly released from the prison of dance. you bow to the gentlewoman, and take your leave of the floor, and of her request. it's none of your responsibility, anyhow.

at least you think so, and then a finger traces the line of your shoulder and down your sleeve, and judas says, "we weren't done talking," and you decide that maybe it  _ is  _ your responsibility.

you turn on a heel. "judas." you realize, faintly, they're the same height as the gentlewoman - their nose only rises to your shoulder.

they look a bit surprised. "why so serious? you know I love to make a  _ scene,  _ helikos, but it's a  _ party-" _

"I'm not making a  _ scene,"  _ you insist, and they have a nice chuckle about that.

"you? here?" they laugh. "of course not! you just came to skulk and drink and  _ taunt  _ me and - you're so  _ predictable.  _ disgusting. _ " _

this isn't fun anymore. your game from earlier has shattered, taking the salon's restrained air with it. you step close to them, tall and imposing, with your face right in theirs. they look like they've said a bit more than they meant to and you don't care. 

"we’re done here," you spit, possibly cruelly. “find someone else to bat your eyelashes at, i’m leaving.” and they rear back and punch you in the nose.

\--

you're both escorted out the front door by a pair of constables taller than you are. judas has a cut lip from where you socked them back, and a blooming black eye from one of the cops. they're laughing hysterically.

your nose is trickling blood and you still can't breathe right. the cop holding you by the elbows shoves you into the street, shouting something about not caring enough to put you both in jail tonight and how you should be grateful, but you don't hear him. you wipe your nose on your sleeve instead and kick a rock.

"you're one to talk about being mad," you wheeze. judas has elected to let their knees go out, sliding to the stone steps, now chuckling to themselves. "what the bloody hell did you do that for?"

the constables head back inside. judas makes a rude gesture at their backs. 

"it's just-" they are still laughing. "I guess it's not at all funny. it just wasn't meant to go like this at all."

you're suddenly very, very tired, and join them on the steps. "tell me how it was meant to go, then."

judas falls silent. "well-" and they sound much more serious now- "I was- it's nothing."

"suit yourself. it did involve a fistfight though, or is that incorrect?"

"not at all." they breathe heavily, and they are resolutely looking directly ahead rather than at you. "I meant to tell you, if you'd have let me, that I've thought about Caligula's. and I suppose the feeling is the same."

"funny way of showing it," you comment.

"excuse me?" they turn to look at you now, and you're  _ not  _ feeling a wash of strange emotions, because you're still a bit angry with them, but you're shocked by the expression of hurt they're wearing.

"you up and tell me you're bloody in love with me and then spend the better part of a month avoiding me, and you're trying to say I'm the one who should be sorry?" judas is absolutely incredulous. "this is ridiculous."

"I'm not the one who rejected me outright and then proceeded to try and get in my pants for an evening!" you retort.

"I didn't - I never rejected-" they're sputtering, gesturing widely. "you thought I was putting a move on you?"

you shut your mouth with a click.

they grin. "was it working?" 

"perhaps." they grin wider, and creep closer. "judas, I - should apologize for that, I think-"

"shut your busted old doctor mouth," they mutter, and pull you down by your tie, the one that they like so much.

you really like kissing judas. you realized this a few months back, after you did it for the first time in the back room of that salon. they were just really  _ good  _ at it, you thought, and it didn't hurt that they were good looking. (not to mention, you were both usually intoxicated in one way or another.)

kissing judas now is different, and you're not sure how you feel about it yet. there's less teeth, you think, and you're sitting outside, and it's cold. you’re still a bit angry with them, but it’s been pushed out of the forefront of your mind.

you'd give the rest of your eyesight to keep kissing them right now, possibly stick a hand up their shirt and make a different kind of scene, but you push them off you. "wait. wait."

"I messed it up," they say immediately, eyes wide.

"no, god, of course not," you reply, but you're hedging. "maybe. it's just, we did just punch each other in the face. maybe we're going about this wrong."

they start in on your neck. "I can punch you again if that would help."

"I think- don't you think we should talk about it?" 

they stop working a dark spot on the side of your neck and lean their forehead into the crook of your shoulder. they're playing with your tie idly. "yeah. you're right." they sound resigned.

you push a fallen curl out of their face, and press a small kiss to their temple.

the street is silent save for the soft buzz of insects and the sound of your breathing.

until the doors behind you slam open and a very drunk man announces to whoever will listen, which happens to be the two of you- "hello, kissing people! I've found myself quite intoxicated, and a gentleman would  _ loooooove  _ to find his way back to his domicile." he stands there for a second until his limbs remember what gravity is, and he joins the two of you on the steps.

regrettably, you know the gentleman - both of you. you'd been half expecting him to not be here at all, after spending all week needling you about how you simply  _ must _ be there.

you curse at him and he tips his hat to you. or he would, if his hat wasn't next to him on the ground. He waves languidly instead, all wrist.

judas peels their face off of your jacket. it's left a red line on their forehead. "ah," they say, without much surprise. "baggage."

\--

carrying crow-face is harder than it looks. he's a very small man in all dimensions except personality, but he's cumbersome and likes to wear fancy, slippery silk shirts that are hard to get a grip on. you carry him piggyback style, after some maneuvering.

judas leads you to an apartment he shares with his bizarre collection of interests (though you have nothing to criticize, you think, remembering your alchemy research sharing bookshelves with the epic of gilgamesh and your own poetry).

"it's possible I show up here unannounced more than I should," they say when asked how they know where to go. "not anything untoward. he's just a very fascinating disaster."

"and I'm not?" you ask, mostly joking.

crow-face pipes up from alarmingly close to your ear. "it's because judas  _ likes _ you," he seems to be trying to whisper. "except they don't wanna admit it. I guessed because I'm good at deductioning. and because they write sappy poems about you I  _ read  _ them."

your face flushes hot. "you what?" you ask, but judas isn't looking at you.

"I never hated you," they say, stepping carefully over every other cobblestone.

"that's a lie." you know that, at least.

"not completely. it's complex."

"so is everything, judas."

"perhaps."

you find crow-face's apartment without trouble. judas picks the lock easily and you deposit the drunk man onto one of his sofas. 

"alarming how easy these locks are to break," you comment.

judas shakes their head. "nah, I've done it like a thousand times." they find crow-face's cat, and give him a scratch behind the ears. "tell 'im we dropped him off, kay Mott? find that friend of his too, the scruffy one, let him know how he's doing."

"it's probably fine to leave him like that," you say to judas's dubious expression. "I'm sort of a doctor, he'll just have a hell of a hangover tomorrow."

judas rolls their eyes at you, but says nothing. they shuffle through his cupboards, leaving a glass of water and a bottle of f.f.gebrant's something or other on the table near him.

"you know she's a hack, right?" you ask, referring to the headache remedy.

"you're both hacks," they respond snidely. "and you don't take your snake oil to parties."

\--

you find yourself leading judas back to your townhouse, where you've never been together before. you're a bit excited for reasons you can't explain.

"my shoulder is damp," you remark. "I think he was crying on me."

"sounds about right," judas agrees. “that or his nose hole was leaking.”

you decide to do some laundry as soon as possible.

it takes some time to bridge the question. "that thing he was saying. about poems."

"um," they reply eloquently.

"that wouldn't happen to be the book of sonnets from last month, would it?" 

"not all of them!" they blurt, and their whole face darkens. "just. some of them. most of them. it doesn't matter."

you'd wondered if they'd found a new muse when you read the stanzas in the journals, and had felt an undefinable twinge of what must have been jealousy. at the time, you'd chalked it up to - well, nothing actually. you'd stuffed that down quite deep and hoped it would be forgotten like the better part of your nonexistent memories.

your coat is still damp around your shoulder, a brisk breeze drawing your attention closer to it. perhaps you step closer to judas in order to block the wind. perhaps they step slightly, hesitantly in the other direction. 

you do not make further approaches.

“the truth is,” judas starts hesitantly. “you remind me of someone.”

“what kind of someone?” you ask, but you can hazard a guess. you’ve reached the door of your own townhouse and you pause in the entry briefly before drifting inside. you hang your coat by the door. the shoulder has a mysterious wet splotch on it.

“tea?” you offer for the sake of politeness. judas has been uncharacteristically silent but accepts the tea, even though you pour it from a glass flask suspended over your kitchen-laboratory’s bunsen burner.

they sip their tea and make a valiant effort at disguising their reaction to it. “i used to care about someone very much, and they died,” they say simply. you do not offer your condolences - judas’s pride is fragile at the moment. “you remind me of them. i didn’t realize it until caligula’s, actually. you have the same spirit.” they laugh, toneless, and you can see them tucking back into their judas-shell, so you put your rationality aside and sit beside them, taking their free hand in yours.

“it’s totally senseless, but it made me so angry,” they admit, still not looking directly at you. “wanting something i couldn’t have.” their voice wavers a second and you don’t think before you fold them into your chest and tuck your face into the crook of their neck.

it takes a minute for you to decide what to say. “i... i can’t be that person you lost. i wouldn’t know how to.”

“i wouldn’t ask you to,” they respond.

“i meant what i said at caligula’s, though. i’ve gone and fallen in love with you-”

“-against all your better judgement-”

“-and if you’ll let me, i’d like to try this the right way around this time.” you don’t think too hard about it, just press their knuckles against your lips for a brief moment. 

you catch them smiling, before they catch your lips on theirs. “i... i might like that.”


End file.
